


Paging Dr. Watson, Stat

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Medical Kink, Oblivious John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock needs a doctor. For what? Only time will tell.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this Tumblr post](http://justacookieofacumberbatch.tumblr.com/post/155672142964/acdwatson-teapotsubtext-a-fic-where-john-and).

“John,” whinged Sherlock from the bedroom, and perfect timing, too. John had just gotten comfortable in his chair--laptop on lap, feet on Sherlock’s chair, hot tea on the end table. Staring wistfully at the steam, he sighed. Was it really worth it to get up? Sherlock was perfectly capable of taking the dozen steps from the bedroom to the sitting room. He was the one who needed something; he had the burden of seeking it out, not forcing the giver of the favor to come to him.

John had just resolved himself to such a course of action when Sherlock’s voice, low and gravely, soared through the open door. “John, please.”

John groaned, setting the laptop on Sherlock’s chair as he stood. “I get a please, do I?” John called back. “It must be dire.”

He walked into the bedroom to find Sherlock splayed out, still in his pyjama bottoms and dressing gown. He’d turned on the lamp on John’s side of the bed and nothing else, leaving his body in a warm glow, the vee of bare skin through the gap in the dressing gown shining like a beacon. It was certainly a sexy tableau, but that wasn’t what made John furrow his brow.

“What are those for?” John gestured to the tools on the table--thermometer, otoscope, sphygmomanometer, gloves. There was even his RAMC mug filled with tongue depressors fanned out like a bouquet.

“I need a doctor.” Sherlock rolled to his side, pouting. “Won’t you help me feel better?”

John sat at the edge of the bed. “What seems to be the problem?”

“I ache.” Sherlock flopped to his back, stretching through his chest.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

“Hmm.” It was probably just muscle strain and dehydration, pretty typical of the post-case come down, but it must be worse than usual if Sherlock was asking for help. He pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock’s forehead, then his palm. “Do you feel feverish at all?”

“I’m very hot.”

John moved on to Sherlock’s lymph nodes. A little swollen. “Sore throat?”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Not yet.”

John squinted at Sherlock as he grabbed the otoscope. Did Sherlock mean he felt like he was getting a sore throat? Could be the beginnings of the flu. “Let’s take a look. Open wide.”

Sherlock did as asked.

John couldn’t see any inflammation, but he was having trouble getting a full picture. “Say ahhh.”

“Why don’t you just push my tongue down?”

“I don’t want to gag you.”

Sherlock’s head dropped to the side, his John’s-an-idiot face firmly in place. “You really think I’m going to gag?”

John’s face heated. “That’s different.” John pulled out a tongue depressor. “I gag on these sometimes.”

“Use your fingers. You know I won’t gag on those.”

John shivered, but he put the tongue depressor back and cleared his throat. “Just say ahh.”

Sherlock locked eyes, and with as much defiance as one can muster when their mouth is wide open, he droned, “Ahhhh.”

Nope. Everything looked normal. Grasping the otoscope with his ring finger and pinky, he pressed his fingers to the edges of Sherlock’s forehead and slipped his other hand under Sherlock’s head. “Turn for me.”

Sherlock let his head be guided over, and John checked his ear. No fluid. No inflammation.

“Other side,” John said.

As John checked the other ear, Sherlock reached out, hooked his fingers in between two of John’s shirt buttons, and tugged. “You’re very thorough.”

John shrugged. “It’s what I do.” He sat back, contemplating. Nothing seemed wrong so far. “How’s your stomach?”

Sherlock pulled one end of the belt tying his gown together until the ends fell apart, spreading the lapels like he was unwrapping a precious gift. Or was practicing for a burlesque. “You’d better check.”

John palpated Sherlock’s abdomen. “Let me know if it’s tender.”

“I’d rather it wasn’t.”

“Well, so do I.” He reached the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjamas. “Could you tug those down a bit so I can get your lower abdomen?”

Sherlock sat up, shrugging off his dressing gown and murmuring, “Whatever you say, doctor.”

And then he lay back and pushed his hips into the air, sliding the pyjama bottoms down his thighs.

“I don’t actually need you to--”

Sherlock tossed them aside, leaving him naked and, oddly, partially erect.

“All right,” John said.

He went to work on the area below Sherlock’s navel, but nothing seemed amiss there, either. “Everything seems fine. You probably just overworked your muscles.” He rubbed a hand over Sherlock’s chest. “You know, this wouldn’t happen if you actually slept and ate a bit during cases.”

Sherlock laid his hand over John’s, tickling the other up John’s forearm. “Thank you, Doctor Watson, I’ll take that under advisement.”

The corner of John’s mouth tugged up, and he huffed a laugh. “You don’t have to be a smartarse about it. Now”--he pulled Sherlock’s hand to his mouth, kissing it--”do you think you could get dressed and have a little breakfast, maybe some paracetamol?”

Sherlock deflated. “What?”

John frowned, brows furrowing. “What?”

“I don’t want breakfast.” Sherlock pronounced the word like a curse.

John threw up his hands. “Then what do you want?”

“I want you to finish the examination.”

John looked Sherlock up and down. He was pretty sure he had everything covered. He hadn’t listened to Sherlock’s lungs, but there was nothing to indicate a respiratory problem. Besides, he didn’t have a stethoscope. “What’s left to do?”

Sherlock rolled over to his hands and knees, arse swaying in the air. “My prostate.”

“Why would you need your prostate-- Oh.” John’s face fell into his hand. “I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock smirked. “I knew you’d get there eventually.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Where would the fun in that be?”

“I could have been having a bit of fun with roleplaying instead of spending ten minutes at work.”

“Well, I hardly thought it would take you this long to catch on, did I?”

John gave him the evil eye. “Oh, shut up.”

Sherlock dropped to his elbows, gave his arse a wiggle. “Make me.”

“All right.” John snapped a glove onto his left hand. “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta!


End file.
